


Bruised Citrus

by thewaitwasworthitlove



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, Gen, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 05:26:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2416511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewaitwasworthitlove/pseuds/thewaitwasworthitlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson and The Fall. </p><p>I tried to imagine what it would be like to watch a love bite leave your skin when you know there won't be anymore to follow. This is the result.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bruised Citrus

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoy. 
> 
> Angst, obviously.

It’s five days after when the last bruise on John’s hip finally disappears. He’s watched it slip from purple to brown to yellow.

It had still been tender when he’d yanked his trousers off, the knees still grubby and bloody from the chaos that had been Bart’s sidewalk. He’d torn at his clothes in the same way he’d wanted to tear at his throat. He couldn’t get a full breath, hadn’t done since he’d heard the line go dead on his cell phone. He’d sought the comfort of Sherlock’s bed, their bed he supposed. ( _His_ bed alone, was not yet a concept he wanted to think about in connection to this mattress). The sheets still held the fragrance of citrus and sandalwood that usually made his blood jump. Now it just made his stomach roil quietly, but he didn’t care. He wanted it anyway. He tried to push away all thoughts of Sherlock. The bruise had twinged and flashes of sheets and mouths and hands grasping tightly at his waist—apparently tight enough to mark him—had flashed unbidden and unwelcome. Sherlock muttering low and deep in his ear, saying impossible things that had made joyous laughter gurgle from his chest.

It had been a dull, mottled brown when they’d buried him. John had seen it that morning when he’d slipped on his suit trousers. His fingers had traced it, but then he slammed down on any potential memories like a steel curtain before they could even begin to wheedle into his conscious mind. The dreams that came to him on the occasions he managed to slip into fractured sleep were quite enough to be getting on with for now, ta. Later, after the clergyman Mycroft had insisted on and John had stated Sherlock would have never wanted had said his last words, John noted that brown was the color of the day. The casket, the bruise, the clod of dirt still clutched in his hand that he’d refused to throw in the gaping hole gashed into the Earth. He'd promised to be here. But, he would not literally bury Sherlock Holmes. 

Yesterday, it had been the faintest of yellows, almost indiscernible against John’s skin. John had refused to get dressed today. It was a bright Monday morning. He should have been dashing about, fussing with the collar of his shirt as he slid into his work shoes, a bagel in his mouth as he made his way to the clinic. Sherlock should be there in his chair or at the desk researching for the new case or cleaning out his mind palace or just watching John quietly, observing the details of their well worn routine for what must have been the millionth time. Anything but dead, really. He should be begging Sherlock to clean something or pay some bill or talk to Mrs. Hudson about the blasted furnace. He’d end up fixing it himself, but he liked to think Sherlock would do it. He should be searching for his phone when he’d feel body heat behind him. Sherlock should be there, holding out his coat and helping his doctor into it before sending him off into London with a shy smile and a tender kiss. Later in the cab, he'd realize that Sherlock had slipped the phone in his back pocket and he'd smile.  

Instead, he was in Sherlock’s dressing gown and his own pyjamas ignoring the enormity of the silence around him. Sarah had already given him two weeks off without question. There are no more cases. The game’s over. So John made tea, sat in his chair, and stared at Sherlock’s, trying not to notice the stiffness in his leg, the tremor of the tea cup when he sat it back down on the side table. 

Today, he’s up, yesterday’s whiskey making his tongue furry and his eyes pulse in their sockets. He drags a hand over his face and makes his way to the bathroom. The shower is started and he’s yanking off his clothes when he catches a glimpse in the mirror and shatters a little bit more. It’s gone. The last mark of Sherlock Holmes. He doesn’t understand. After he’d been shot, he’d managed a permanent root system of scar tissue at his shoulder. That bullet hadn’t ruined him nearly as completely as Sherlock Holmes has. Shouldn’t his whole body be riddled with scars? Divots worn in to his skin, each one another testament to loving and losing him? Instead, it’s gone. Healed and broken all at once, John feels hot tears finally bubble their way to the surface. He’d sworn he wouldn’t do this. He wouldn’t cry. But, that smooth little piece of skin now pale beige has pushed him over the edge. 

He’s not sure how long he stays there, naked and sunk down to the floor. The shower is frigid by the time he finds the strength to crawl over to it and turn it off. Maybe tomorrow, then. Somehow he manages to get back into bed and pull the blankets around him, blocking out the world, sealing in the pain, and ignoring the scent of citrus and sandalwood.


End file.
